


Libertango

by HolyEmpress



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, MENTION OF TSUMUGI AOBA, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyEmpress/pseuds/HolyEmpress
Summary: - Hibiki, he huffs against his face and raises a leg to lock it between Wataru's thighs - he'd seen it done before, by pretty ladies, but he's sure he call pull if off -, do you know what I want for fine's next choreography ? Take a wild guess, he declares, hoping his gaze is as intense as he feels.





	

He rents the practice room without thinking. Spending Yumenosaki's currency was like a game to the members of fine anyways, and the word _tango_ had rolled off Wataru's tongue so seductively, he would have been damned to ignore such an alluring proposition. Not that it was an actual invitation, but he'd taken it as such, _Emperor, is there truly a dance you don't know ?_ asked in desbelief by a such sweaty, alluring Wataru, being something he could only hear as a dare to actually fix all of his blind spots at once – and the partner fit for this task was all but designed already.

He slides a note in his locker, then reconsiders, knowing full well that _this locker was stuffed with hungry doves_ and probably one of the many places he grew flowers in secret (hidden under layers upon layers of mirrors and artful light tricks, but the way Isara just _sobbed_ everytime he'd came close to the thing was proof enough for him). However, texting was too mundane for such a special occasion, so he had to find something, _anything,_ he had to make it spark – and that's when an idea comes to him that's only absurd and exciting enough for him to be sure it's exactly right.

He lets his tie hang a little loose and unbuttons his vest, checks his reflection in a window – yes, that's the look he wants for this. 3-B should be about done with maths and hanging out in their classroom still. He pratices his walking in the hallway, firm, determined, _hot,_ and when he barges in, time freezes, because he's Eichi Tenshouin, student council president, Emperor, worst among the worst. Tsukinaga hisses like a scared cat – it's fun, he loves to see the little ousama's childish reactions - Tsumugi raises his head out of his book and gives him a look of sheer terror, Nito and the others reacting less grandiously, not that he cares that much, his target is the blue-haired idol, but the _staging_ of a play has some importance. He's no theater star, the real one, shining so bright, hasn't even turned to him, but that's fine, so fine, it's gonna make the _impact_ of his little capricious idea pop even more. He pretends to ignore his surrounding and walks straight to Wataru's, who's nicely positioned in front of a wall, and simply slaps his hands on said wall to corner him, and because they are the exact same height, it barely works the way he'd wished for it to – so he has to continue his act to the end. He looks deep into his eyes. That fool's smiling wide, enjoying the position he'd been put in, even if this is exhibitionism to the extreme (now, _everyone's_ truly watching this show) and he begins to understand why his magician was so good at playing all the roles at once in his plays.

\- _Hibiki,_ he huffs against his face and raises a leg to lock it between Wataru's thighs - he'd seen it done before, _by pretty ladies,_ but he's sure he call pull if off -, do you know what I want for fine's next choreography ? Take a wild guess, he declares, hoping his gaze is as intense as he feels.

\- Birds and ballet are overdone, aren't they ? Wataru answers, _meekly_ for his standards, and a rose petal pops from behind his ear, which is pretty sure is, in his jester's flowers language, a synonym for _flustered_.

It empowers him. Every time Wataru, just a little, lets go of the _role_ to show even the smallest inch of a true self, it feels like a victory for him.

\- Tango, he says, loud. Tonight, in the pratice room.

He pulls on the fool's tie, blood boiling and adrenaline making his forehead seem as it's about to consume itself in a spiral of flames – their lips come close but don't kiss, it's only a prolonged tension that he releases in one go, turning back, closing the door with a loud bang, thanking god for his sense of _drama,_ and cursing him in the same go for his weak constitution.

The nurse scolds him when he stumbles and crashes on the bed. He doesn't care. He'd scored himself a date with an angel, and even Itsuki Shu's presence in the infirmary couldn't ruin his mood right now.

 

 

Wataru's a fast learner, but his own eyes a quick enough to absorb a lifetime's worth of tango in the span of an afternoon. There's no such thing as anxiousness for a Tenshouin, much less stage fright, only determination prevailed ; yet, he allows himself to fantasize a little and loses focus once or twice – or thrice too many – as he imagines Wataru leading him into these outrageous moves, breathing down his neck in exhaustion, eyes full of stars and magic as they'd dance until the late hours of the night.

The expressions on the performers face is what strikes him most of all in his research. It's nothing short of perfection, though it's likely none of these beautiful couples are actual lovers, all of them look like such, accurate representation of what he'd look for in a relationship – hungry eyes and body matching to a crazy fast tempo, elegant beasts clawing at each other but never quite ready to devour their prizes just yet.

He coughs. He would have only a short window of time to enjoy this before his body would fall apart like it always did ; the lungs always gave up first, feeble little machines flawed at the core, then it was the head, incapable of keeping any sense of reality from the moment fever striked. Ah, how pathetic.

He had no time to linger on about the curse, however – as the flower who bloomed into despair could only live itself ephemeral life with the obstination of the ugliest of roses, and love the goddess sun it had never known with the adoration of a pagan fool.

 

He escapes the infirmary around seven, refreshed and eager, and changes into his practice closes before heading to the room he'd rented. The mood isn't right, however, in this brightly lit setting – it screams immature, and he makes several journeys to the props and costume room to arm himself with the right amount of candles and red drapes. It's heavy, but he hangs the drapes lovingly, and places the candles one by one, so caught up in the process he doesn't notice the music that starts playing all on its own. _Libertango._

\- Your majesty, he hears in his back.

He turns, still crouching with a lighter in his hand, and the sight takes his breath away.

Wataru's dress is red and black and gold, with extravagant ruffles and a long slit that guides his eyes to a pair of beautiful high heels – it looks _so good,_ his legs making an elegant arch, and he only looks at his face again to notice the red camelia stuck in Wataru's hair.

He'd seen him in period clothing before, but this is nothing quite like it. It's a thousand times better – something within him wants to drastically alter fine's uniform so that Wataru would never have to go back to that unsightly mess of fabric and express his genuine beauty, that shine, the incredible line he walked between concrete and _eery –_ and his own pratice outfit feels out of place in comparison.

\- Wataru, he begins to scold, did you really wish for me to be so underdressed ?

The music keeps playing, insistant background noise to their conversation, god, his feets are itching to dance already, to put into pratice all that his eyes had memorized so eagerly all afternoon, but conversation was a necessary step to flirting, or so he thought – because Wataru starts moving toward him with long, dramatic tango steps.

Instinctively, when he's within arm's reach, he takes his hand and tilts all of Wataru's body backward, pulling his arm up, and it's harder than the video had made it look, but the thrill of it is certainly worth the effort. All of Wataru's hair fly in the hair, in a long, dramatic swirl – he smells like danger or rose perfume, both of them intoxicating beyond what he could handle.

\- I simply wanted to keep up with your fantastic _amazing,_ Wataru says - suddenly taking the lead and lifting him into the air for a few second to shift their positions, before beginning to delve into what he recognizes as beginner steps -, that surprise this afternoon certainly left the most delightful impression, did it not ?

He smiles and challenges Wataru with a much more difficult choreography, improvised. He realizes they keep switching between leading and following without even wanting to do as much, Wataru changing from _femme fatale_ to Don Juan within the same swirl of expert grace and sensually. His heart wants to laugh with joy, they're already so good just from knowing each other, how could this get better ? But his hand get on his partner, fast - he's done with the warmup already, the _serious_ part of the dancing.

\- Did you like it ? He asks, cheeks red with excitation and maybe – a bit of arousal.

\- Most certainly, Wataru says, cupping Eichi's chin into his fingers before releasing them – playing the role of the alluring one so perfectly he can't help but gasp– ah, I don't expect such a treat everyday. Your majesty sure knows how to put a fool back into his place, he laughs.

\- That's right, he answers with great confidence, or so he tries, _bad lungs really don't like tango,_ and an Emperor never backs off on such a challenge.

 

Calling himself an Emperor feels off in these circumstances. Wataru's wearing a dress, they've been dancing for five minutes that seem like decades, and he's just a teenager really, with no achievements to his name save for the lives he'd ruined, so when the music stops, he pulls at his jester's move to a halt by a simple motion of the hand – he needs a break, and Wataru indulges him, stopping the recorder by … releasing his pet dove from behind the flower in his hair (he blinks twice, but it's _definitly_ what he's just witnessed) then summoning water bottles straight from the ceiling. It falls into his palm, and he's deeply thanksful for the fresh taste that graces his tongue just a second later.

Then he can't help but burst out into laughter as he catches their reflection in the practice room mirror. First, because Wataru is so tall in heels, ridiculously attractive, second because his worn out white shirt and black training pants aren't quite as good of a spectacle to behold. He sits on the floor to catch his breath, Wataru follows, placing himself behind him to massage his shoulders.

\- You're too talented for me, my Wataru, he complains, groaning in pleasure when the blue-haired _angel_ hits one of his tense spots. You can do everything, how am I supposed to follow ?

\- But there's some things only you can do, your Majesty, he whispers, manicured hands caressing Eichi's neck gently, it is only fair for me to compensate by merely mastering everything else.

 

He ticks. Wataru's voice, low and warm, was a force that grabbed directly into his chest to reach for his heart and just _squeezed it_ out of its blood. He felt sick with love and desire, just like he'd experienced in the afternoon, when Wataru had reacted so cutely to his little farce. True, there was some things only ugly flowers of blood and dirt could do. Being poisonous was one of them ; but Wataru's ressentment, unlike the other four, after being stung with the dangerous thorns, had taken a form unexpected.

Oh, he'd thought so foolishly that he could stain these wings of blue – bring those blessed by god to the toxic soil that held him captive, and like a child, play with the eternal, immortal like it was nothing but toys for a spoiled brat, and indeed, Wataru had proved himself to be the most ressourceful toybox he'd even seen, never breaking under the neverending assault. Never faltering.

He'd thought he'd get as kiss out of him the moment he'd joined fine, and that they would be making love to each other within the year, but all he'd gotten was roses, tea as good as ambrosia and countless memories he'd never thought he'd ever have, but he was tired, youth running away from him faster than his eyes could follow.

That's right, he didn't know tango, nor true love's kiss, and even less the feeling of being loved – he'd begun to comprehend it just a little when Tori's looked at him with starry eyed, and Tsumugi had signed that contract without doing so much as reading, but that was the extent of his knowledge.

He hold back a cough.

\- Have I ever complimented you, Wataru ? He asks, still under the spell of the massage. It seems I don't do that enough, do I ?

The question is followed by a vague silence – he pays attention, just in case another flower had popped behind Wataru's ears, just to make sure – but the answer is surprisingly plain.

\- You don't need to compliment me, your Majesty.

\- So you don't want me to praise you ? He pouts, genuinely upset a little. That won't do ! An Emperor will do as he pleases, you know ?

He turns to face him and Wataru's not his usual, less… exuberant that what he knows of him. There's no petal storm to welcome him, no egg juggling or prestidigitation, only – only the young man he'd admired from the hospital bed, now in the most beautiful dress he could have imagined, just for him, for his stupidest whims and he'd never thought he'd be into this, but there here was, bewitched.

\- I love your eyes, he declares boldly. And your hair is my favorite thing, I wish I could smell it all the time. And…

He can't stop himself now that he's gotten started.

\- You smell nice, and you speak with such creativity, you surprise me all the time and…

His mouth clash against Wataru's – the soft lips brushing against his, unexpectedly, he had so much more to say, so many compliments that the fool just wouldn't accept, kissing him instead with surprisingly little idea of what he's doing. Wataru's hands caresses his hair – the flower falls out of his own – then goes down to his neck, and his tongue his shyly teasing his, so he has to take the initiative himself to go further. Leading the tango was fun.

He leans on Wataru until he has to give up and lay on the floor. Their lips part, but there's this incredible heat between them, and he plants a hand on his chest.

\- _My_ Wataru, he breathes against his neck.

_Mine and mine only._

Wataru's eyes are open wide and he's not sure he can't control himself any longer. Thoughts runs wild through his mind, everything and nothing at once, _I'm gonna die so soon, there's no second chance for people like me,_ and he'd never been once to give up on the things he wanted, he's not one to lose, not twice, not like this. Wataru's blushing, he notices, redder than any rose – breathing loudly.

\- Do you want me, Wataru ? He whispers into his ear.

\- I put on my best dress for you, he laughs nervously. I even shaved… I've never been one for subtlety…. _Eichi._

He nibbles at his ear. He doesn't want to go slow, not at all, once again worried about these damn lungs and his miserable stamina. His hand wander into the ruffles to find the slit and caress the thighs that had been shaved just for him. Wataru gasps and it feels like his life has culminated, somehow, yet, something's still imperfect. He keeps stroking against the pale, soft skin, hungry for more. Wataru's like a dove, fearful and delicate, flinching under the touch. The lion, within him – wants to make a mess of that fragile animal.

\- Are you afraid of me ? He asks.

He's not genuinely concerned but he desires nothing much than to hear that answer, but instead of words, Wataru answer in flowers. He plucks a string of black dahlias and white lilies for his shirt, and they fall all around him – it's theater, Wataru's a stage of his own – and when the bed of flowers is sufficient for his taste, the smell strong around him, he pulls him in for a much dirtier kiss, hand sliding under his shirt.

\- I'm only afraid to disappoint.

\- Then give it your all, he answers, tugging at the hem of Wataru's underwear, of Wataru's _satin panties._ Surrender yourself to me, he whispers, rubbing against the length of his cock under the fabric,

It's fabric and it's skin, it's smell and perfume, everything he wants, everything there is to win in the world – there's no director to this movie. He laughs, just a little, because it comes to him naturally whenever thery're together. Living is hilarious and weird, love is a miracle, exercising isn't advised for the chronically ill, and he doesn't care, all he cares about is Wataru leaving little kisses along his clavicle, and letting him slide finger after finger under his delicate lingerie. The music resumes playing out of nowhere, and he's really glad, somehow, that he's taken time to light all of these candles.

He pulls up Wataru's dress and rests his head against his thighs, kissing his stomach, smelling the flesh before pulling down the underwear in one go. He can't think of anything more delightful than to go down on him – he kisses the tip of Wataru dick, and the reaction is so exquisite he has no choice but to go on, giving a few quick licks before swallowing. He goes back and forth a few times, just teasing, before his mouth takes in a bigger length, and the only thing distracting him from his respiratory struggles – it's _really_ not easy when he'd exhausted himself already – are the beautiful sounds coming from Wataru's throat. He takes a halt before Wataru comes, for the sake of not dying in the middle of the act.

\- I-I'm sorry I – god, his voice is dying too - … will finish you. I…

His hand reach out for Wataru's dick – he has too, he's needs to do well, he wants a boyfriend after this and…

Wataru grabs his wrist.

\- Emperor, there's no need to.

\- Wataru ! He complains, and he realizes he's really messed up from this, sweaty, his heart racing faster than normal. He knows his behaviour is childish, but Wataru sits back up and… locks him into a hug. It upsets him and soothes him at the same time, _did I not blow you right ?_ but off course, it's not that, it can't be, and that hug is so incredibly warm, it makes him forget his own mood.

\- I want to touch you all the times and dance every night, he confesses, nested against his shoulder. I want to be… your highschool sweetheart… I'm sick of being an Emperor.

And you're not a fool, he adds within his mind.

\- We can be everything, Eichi.

 

They dance a few more tangos, in heat, and it makes him forget his failure. The music is perfect, and so is Wataru, ah – they only end up on the floor after an hour, and his desires have not faded one bit. If he's unable to do it right, he wants to find his very own way, so he kisses every inch of his prize. _You're my boyfriend,_ he bites his nipples, _you're not their Wataru at all,_ he takes off the heels to kiss his toes, and even if he'd known Wataru wasn't one for worship, he still wants to adore him like a god.

He lies down next to him only whe he feels satiated.

\- You're perfect, he complains again. I could never grow bored of you.

Wataru reaches for his hand.

 

* * *

 

Eichi falls asleep in his arms, and it makes him want to carry him all the way to the moon. He summons a blanket and wraps it around him, and he's glad his Emperor's eyes are closed so that he can not see him like this, flustered, incredibly _boring_ as he hums a tune of joy. He could tell him everything he wanted in that state. _You're pretty. You're my… favorite person, no matter what you do,_ he murmurs, lifting him off the ground and letting his dove lock the door behind them.

\- Let Mr. Tenshouin know he's expected to pratice his tango everyday, he tells the driver before disappearing into the night.


End file.
